Happy Christmas

Well I'm happy that someone is enjoying themselves in their tights at Christmas.  I'm off to see my one big happy family.  I'll probably freeze death in snow drift.  They'll find me lifeless with my trusty Boots 60 denier tights solid with frost.  Well at least I'll warm up when in the crematorium, just before I crumble to dust.

Unless I can get my trusty note book out and do a quick post over Christmas, I afraid this could be the last post until Wednesday.  Of course if I'm frozen to 10 below, and incinerated at 800 above this will be the last post forever.  If I sit posting under the tree this is what might happen:

Mother: What are you doing?

Me: Blogging

Mother: Wogging dear?  Isn't that racist?

Me: No blogging.  Since I'm a sad cow and no body talks to me in real life and writing about tights on the Internet.

Mother: You do seem to be wearing tights more often now dear.

Me: That's because I went out with that nylon fetish pervert.

Mother: He seemed like such a nice boy - pity he had to go and live with his boyfriend.  Do you like the tights we bought for Christmas?

Me: Oh those I just love very shiny tan.  Makes my fat legs look like fat sausages.

Then I start thinking about death again and my legs spitting and dripping like sausages in the cremation oven, and have to take another few fluoxetine

So to avoid this happy scenario I may not be able to blog for a while.  Not that anyone views this blog.  If you do, you can always watch the repeats -  it is Christmas after all.

But what all you happy tights perverts signed in for was to see girls in tights, not hear my existential angst.  So here is that cheery cow again.  (I'm sure they are making her do that).

And here is a young lady who appears to have got a pair of heels for Christmas.  As much as I like heels I'm sure she'd have preferred an iPhone.

Tune back after the Turkey for more on my love-hate relationship with tights (or not).  (I wonder how long after my demise Google will delete this blog?)